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OR THE 

DANCE ON THE LETHE. 


One Thousand Years from This Time, 



NEW YORK and CHICAGO. 
1882 - 3 . 















JS L ^ 1 

C7 a - 


Entered according to Act of Congress, m the year 1882, 
BY THE AUTHOR, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 





DANSE DESMORTS 



MACABRE DANCE, 







DEDICATION. 

This Poem was written Certis 
de Causis, and is affectionately in - 
scribed to my "Dear Cousins," whose 
fates are within it decreed. 

Formose Puer. 


INTRODUCTORY SONNET. 


As I walked out one lonesome starlit night, 

I had a vision which was not a vision, 

And of this walk oft-times I’ve made derision, 
E’en if around me did play many a spright, 

And what I saw, God grant was a great sight, 

And what it was, was hard for a decision. 

But crashing bones made many a loud collision, 
And darting eyes could scarcely trace their flight; 

Some rose from out the w r ater, some the ground 
Some sailed athwart th’ ethereal vault of blue, 
Some only made a strangling gurgling sound, 
Some roared like distant thunder as they flew; 

Some were strange aspects as they passed around, 
And some were goblins that I surely knew. 










THE FATES, 


OR 

THE DANCE ON THE LETHE. 


My readers may regard me as a very presumptuous 
man, but I can not help it, and after the literati of 
Crawfordsville, Indiana, away in the misty future, have 
experienced what I have attempted to describe, they 
will quietty acquiesce with me, and place a feather in my 
cap. They may now claim that I am possessed with 
his satanic majesty , or the idiosyncrasy peculiar to a 
monomaniac, neither cafi I help that, but Crawfords¬ 
ville talent is too precious to be wasted, and too popu¬ 
lar to be hissed from the stage of public favor, and I 
would not do one thing intentionally to retard the pro¬ 
gress of that noble band of literary aspirants. I only 
wish to show them that when we meet in the “sweet 
* bye and bve" that I am correct, and when the Lethe 

disgorges its vast multitude, Crawfordsville will be rep¬ 
resented as described. I have caused this to be pub¬ 
lished, not with malice toward anyone, but guided only 
by pure motives, and the muses. He who has never 
gazed out upon the dark rolling Lethe of fancy, has 
never enjoyed the pleasure of a deep and sweet reverie. 



8 


Some uncontrollable feeling came over me, and I was 
permitted to look away over yonder into the future, and 
behold that contemporary line of poetic writers, that 
this Dear Athens (Crawfordsville) prides herself so much 
of. When my fancy gazed out upon the waters, it saw 
millions of fairy aspects, at first they appeared to be 
mere shadows, phantoms or what not, but I had not 
gazed long however, till those shadows had grown into 
human skeletons, and each skeleton carried a wand or 
banner, with name engraven thereon, as candidate for 
the rank it thought it merited. I was permitted to see 
just as the noble representatives of Crawfordsville were 
receiving their commission for their reward. Among 
them I noticed, Mayfield, Krout, Thompson and Lew 
Wallace. Occasionally I would get a glimpse of the 
Wabash Po—t, Clodfelter, but he did not appear to fig¬ 
ure very conspicuously. 

I hold that the"e is but a small space between heaven 
and true poets. They are rare, and like the jheavenly 
dove that' flies upon the same exalted level, and never 
touches the earth: —It is only one time in many 
millions, that genius arrives with us to live forever. 
Some tew may set eternal stars over our heads, many 
others may scatter delicious flowers along our pathway, 
fragrant and beautiful in the morning to wither away 
in the first noonday sun. 

You will perceive in the order of arrangement (which 
is just as I saw it,) that the judgment is by turns ad¬ 
ministered, and from the representatives of Crawfords¬ 
ville, Frank Mayfield will be the first to arise on the wa¬ 
ters and appear before the judgment seat of St. Peter. 


9 


He will struggle with the tide, 

And the muses by hi^s side, 

Will but place him on thesand, 

With a meter in his hand; 

Then with Harp’s JEoMan note, 

He will row his fairy boat, 

When the softest chords will flow, 

Over those that sleep below; 

There will bony fingers creep 
Tnen from out the rolling deep, 

And with rattling bones around, 

He will strike a doleful sound, 

And their requiem he will chime, 

In a sort of “Runic Rhyme.” 

Ere their sweetest cadence dies, 

All those creaking bones arise, 

In a circle last around, 

Keeping time to ev’ry sound; 

In the midst our minstrel stands, 

Musing there with sweeping hands, 

O’er the Syren Harps he woke, 

And the bones to whom he spoke, 

With many a gurgling splatter, 

And a kind of clitter-clatter, 

Dance the skeletons aright, 

Till the “wee sma’ hours o’ night,” 

When one of the “Tuneful Nine,” 

Seeing Frank on the decline, 

Gently stepped upon the water; 

Just think that lovely daughter! 

There with him dancing by, on the bosom of the Lethe,* 

Where the flow’ry walks are grand, and all beauty seems to 
breathe, 


*For rhythm I pronounce this “Leeth” as a monosyllable and to give my 
“ Dear Cousins” a chance for anfinfliction. ‘ Gods, don’t.” I hear them say, 
t here are plenty of chances for" inflictions in this drowsy cant produced by 
s ome poor sickly muse. But never mind and use this also, 



10 


There all minstrels gently join, as they mount their Great Pe- 
gassus,* 

And with winged speed, they flee to the gorgeous Mount Par¬ 
nassus. 

Frank, he went up all alone, 

To St. Peter on his throne, 

Just to hear his lair decision, 

E’n if it were derision, 

But he was a “boss old bov,” 

Aud he filled Frank’s heart with joy; 

He didn’t believe in aristocracy. 

And abhorred all Pautisocracy, 

But Frank made a jerking bow, 

To his angelship, just how, 

I do not mind, but know, 

It was ten degrees or so; 

When St. Peter said , “begin, 

Tell the truth if you would win. 

An eternal place, and name, 

On the mountain top of fame, 

So Mayfield I pray be out, 

And tell all you wrote about, 

“Well, says Frank, if I must say, 

I once wrote a little lay, 

But the subject I can’t give, 

Just now, yet, it will live, 

For I wrote it all the same, 

“On the border line of Iame.”f 
Then the cherubs all around, 

Made their golden trumpets sound, 


*My Dear Cousins please pardon this, you can throw the accent on the 
first syllable if you desire. 

tFrank Mayfield in the Indianapolis Herald, Jan., 1880. 

'•I stand where poets all have stood, 

Just on the border line of fame.” 

Ah! Frank did you finally get there? 



11 


With a kind of laugh and riot, 

That the St. could hardly quiet; 

‘Is that, sir, all you wrote?’ 

‘No,’ piped Frank’s husky throat, 

‘But if I can now rely, 

On my memory I’ll try, 

I wrote “No Irish need apply.”* 

St. Peter jumped iD haste, 

Crack’d his heels and backward paced, 
Well done my boy, well done, 

You are a fav’rite son, 

Pass on awhile and wait, 

Thro’ that little golden gate, 

And you soon shall know your fate, 
Frank, he passed as if he’d sinned, 
While St. Peter only grinned, 

Clapped his hands upon his side,'] 

And in thunder tones he cried, V 

There’s a poet true and tried. J 
On the towering mountain high, 
Basking in the sunny sky, 

Sits our hero.f 

But arise! 

Cries a seraph from the skies, 

And then in a moment rears, 

A bleached form that’s been for years, 
In the depths with the forsaken, 

Till some cherub form hath taken, 

Off the veil, and who is he! 

The alabaster form that we see; 


’•‘Frank Mayfield in Crawfordsville Journal. This certainly rivaled his 
celebrated paw paw poena. Yet Frank can make “jam up” poetry out of 
paw paws, 

tFrank feels good, he is no\y enjoying the acme of his fame, and looks 
down upon his contemporaries with contempt. He has tasted of the clear 
draught of immortal fame, and likes the potion. No one can enjoy this 
more than my Dear Cousin Frank. 



12 


Then with a gentle clatter, 

And a “splitter, splatter splatter,” 
Dance the fairies jigs and reels, 

And there in the center wheels, 

Maurice Thompson with his lyre, 

There amid the bony choir; 
Independent never “carin.” 

If he did kill the white heron,* 

And it made him thus immortal, 

His muse they can not startle, 

But with a huge grimace, 

And a white, and bony face, 

He struck his sweetest notes, 

And the fairies in their boats, 

When they could not stand no more, 
With their gently dipping oar, 

Rowed our Maurice to the shore; 

His Pegassus he strode, 

And in flying speed he rode, 

To the monarch of the mountains, 

And the pure inspiring fountains, 
There he enters thro’ the gate, 

To his holy high estate, 

Muttering some perfect meter, 

As he first meets old St. Peter.f 
“Welcome Maurice, welcome to thee!” 
Cries St. Peter in a great glee, 

“Come up to the judgment seat, 

And your busy life repeat!” 

“Well my judge, my life was busy, 

(But my head’s a little dizzy,) 

Tho’ I wrote but in prosaics. 


*See his Witchery of Archery, “The Death of the White Heron.’’ 

+The meeting of Cousin Maurice and St. Peter, will be long remembered, 
although Maurice seemed to be somewhat embarrassed owing to the pecu¬ 
liar rattle of his bones, yet he behaved wonderfully nice. 




For a struggle there ensues for high rank 
Leaping back with a mere shiver, 

As he draws his quiver 
The fatal shaft, and from his bow 
Comes a twang, and down below 
He “plumps” poor Frank. 


(Page U.) 





















































13 


All the Hoosierdom Mosaics.* 

<3 And ’tis strange the works which shame us, 

Very often make us famous;” 

“But, no time now for debating, 

^ Many more outside are waiting, 

And we want no pompous diction, 

Cries St. Peter, nor no fiction !” 

“Well, dear Sir, I wrote some “Witchery,” 
And some “Archery” and some “Whichery,” 
And much more I wrote for Harper, 

But perhaps for Scribner, sharper, 

And let me tell you no disaster, 

Come from any poetaster, 

That my muse e’er brought to birth, 

Which I think proves well my worth;” 

Peter could sit still no longer, 

Rose and said, but “few write stronger, 

Just step thro’ that golden gate, 

And there be content to wait. 

Till archangels fix your fate.”f 
He then passed the golden portal, 

Where he hoped to be immortal, 

Then his jaded horse he spurred, 

And his eyes they blinked and blurred, 

As his ears they overheard, 

Frank Mayfield’s tuneful lyre, 

And his mountain.reed up higher; 

Then he goes up to the throne, 

Where Frank sitteth all alone, 

With a whoop he tries to pass, 

But alas! alas! alas! 


*Seehis Hoosier Mosaics. 

tMaurice felt good, and indeed would have been happy had it not been 
for the obstruction thrown in his path just through the little gate. 




14 


For a struggle there ensues for high rank.* 
Leaping back with a mere shiver, 

As he draws out from his quiver, 

The fatal shaft, and from his bow, 

Comes a twang, and down below, 

He “plumps” poor Frank. 

There to Maurice on his throne, 

Harps on Houri,f all alone, 

And no ears e’re drank such strains, as she 
sweeps the golden strings, 

Calling cherubs here and there, with her golden 
rustling wings, 


Poor Mayfield after being “plumped” off of the moun¬ 
tain (what a pity it was, that he was not an archer too) 
becoming envious and jealous of his contemporary, ran 
zigzag along a mighty tairn, when a cherubs sword 
arose from the mere, seizing it with giant grip wheeled 
and threw it. The pointed silver flashed splendor 
through the Moon’s silvery sheen, as on it went head¬ 
long, perpendicular, whirling in an arch around with 
fatal vengeance to anything with which it might come 
in contact. Sweeping and cropping shrubs as if hurled 
by some Titan of old. On, on it goes vengeance like, 
directed with impetuous speed toward the vital spark sur- 


*This was a loDg and severe struggle for the mastery, at times it was 
hard to determine which would have to yield, but Maurice, having an 
archers experience, finally took advantage of his wiry antagonist and 
hurled him down the awful abyss, pierced thro’ ai d thro’by his certain 
arrow and poor Cousin Mayfield’s fame was not a fixed certainty. 

tMaurice Thompson may congratulate himself for the prospective pleas¬ 
ure of living in sweet communion with that black-eyed N> mph of Paradise; 
and now my Dear Cousin let new vanities swell in your bosom. Only a 
1 ittle lapse of 1000 years now separate you. 




15 


rounded by the bony form of Maurice, but ere it had 
reached its wonderful destination, a sturdy cherub see¬ 
ing the fatal mark of its intended terminus, leaped 
like a meteor into its well directed route, seizing it by 
the hilt, brandished it twice over his head at each time 
crying vengeance on him who hurled this implement of 
war, then raising it in a semicircle obliquely, let Hy the 
silvery weapon from whence it had proceeded. On, on, 
it goes leaving a trace of fire behind it, as it hurled by 
the hand of Juno, till alas, poor Mayfield it struck 
about midriff, knocking him into the casket of obliv¬ 
ion, where he may take his calm repose forever, and 
naught but mortal dare intrude. When the bony forms 
of the Lethe arise, and on goes the dance. 

From beneath the sullen water, 

Rose a fair and lovely daughter, 

And there in a circle ’round, 

Many legions doth abound, 

From the bosom of the Lethe,* 

Many faries show’d their teeth. 

Terpsichore upon the sand, 

Gave the rattling bones command, 

Hornpipes, jigs and reels were spun. 

And many slow cotillions run. 

Legions from the river reared, 

Myriads in it disappeared. 

Then two gentle forms arose, 

As if from a long repose, 

And no ears e’er drank such chimes, 

(“Ceptin” those who’ve heard their rhymes,) 

As they struck upon the wires, 


^Tautology! tautology!! Please cry it aloud. 
And bring as you cry it my faint muse’s shroud. 




16 


Of their well attuned lyres, 

But as spirits now adore us. 

We’ll proceed to sing the chorus, 

Roared the River clashed the bones, 
Chimed the Harps and crashed the tones, 
Every sound was.in its place, 

Ev’ry fairy moved with grace, 

Not a discord broke the spell, 

All was music in the dell, 

Some would wake, and some would sleep, 
Some would dance, and some would weep, 
Some would laugh, and some would cry, 

Some would heave, and some would sigh, 
Roared the River burst the tones, 

Beat the water with their bones, 

Every crash and gentle chime, 

Was within its proper time: 

Till one of the ‘‘Nine,” 

Came down from above, 

In her plumage so tine, 

And her spirit of love, 

She gazed as they danced, 

Y\ itli devotional care, 

And her soul was entranced, 

O’er the musical air, 

And she magic’ly rowed, 

From the billowy strand. 

To the one that she loved,* 

With a harp in her hand, 


♦“Beautiful Venus! with thy hair of. light, 

Aud dazzling eyes of glory ;in whose form 
Thecharm of earth’s least mortal daughters grow, 

To an unearthly stature; in an essence of pure elements, 
While the hues ot youth carnatiuned like a sleeping infant’s 
cheek 

Kocked by the beatings of a mothers heart, etc., etc., 

Or the rose tints, etc., etc.,” 

My Dear Cousin Mary how viyidly I thought of these lines when I saw 
fair Venus pilot you up to the temple of fame. 




17 


And I gazed thro’ the night, 

At the dance on the wave, 

As the pale melting light, 

Lit the lone empty grave, 

With the wings of the wind. 

They arose from thejlLetke. 

Leaving cherubs behind, 

In an ambient wreath. 

And as fair Venus balanced herself upon the silvery 
waters by the side of the author of ‘’Little Brown 
Hands 11 to direct her to the mountain of fame—down 
beneath the bubbling waves in a great circumambient 
wreath sank the fairies, and on the swift wings of the 
blast go the two, Mary Hannah Krout, and Venus, thro 1 
infinite vistas of space, from the flowery bosom of the 
Lethe to the great mountain of Parnassus. The way 
up the rugged mountain was as pleasant as pageantry 
could make it. The rocks were all covered with the 
fairest tapestry. Hundreds of fairy barks floated gal¬ 
lantly upon the Lethe, with their banners shining splen¬ 
dor, and glassing themselves in the silvery waters. 
Her pathway along the fair valleys were strewn with 
delicious flowers, by the hand of cherubs, till the whole 
mountain seemed bathed in their fragrance. On, on, 

they go up the towering mountain, directed by the 
sweet and gentle cadence of Maurice’s heavenly lyre, 
till the whole atmosphere seemed flavored with its un¬ 
dying vibrations. They go on and on, unnoticed till 




18 


they come within a cubit of his golden throne— 

an instant more, and all is still, but on looking above 
they behold him gazing down on them with one of 
those grins peculiar to cherubs of his rank, and in a fit 
of dissatisfaction they hear his bugle blow which ral¬ 
lies dreadful cherubim to ranks of war, but on gazing 
down the second time and beholding the legions hasten¬ 
ing to the aid of the author of “Little Brown Hands.” 
he disperses his army and shrinks into a dark and dreary 
cave content to let Mary Hannah occupy a higher posi¬ 
tion upon the mountain than himself. So on she goes 
unmolested—She comes to a table-land paved with gold 
where all the rocks were disguised by some extrinsic at¬ 
tributes of fancy’s dress, and drapery decked with dia¬ 
monds and crystals were hanging from the mighty gor¬ 
ges of the mountain as if suspended by the hands of an¬ 
gels, for the passage of divine footsteps. There upon 
her throne sits she musing with the divine messengers 
of heaven, calling them around her in shoals, by the 
heavenly strains of her undying lyre. 

When a voice cried, arise!* 

And peeped many hollow eyes, 

From beneath the rolling wave, 

Which so long had been a grave. 

Then they all began to dance, 

O’er the River’s broad expanse, 

And their gnashing teeth would clatter, 

To the tune of ‘-chitter chatter,” 


*Just who this was giving command I cannot exactly say but it appeared 
to be flavored with the usual egotism of—— but never mind, the cadence of 
that voice was divine. 




19 


As they run the graceful Schottische, 

It appeared a little Scottish, 

As they round and round did canter, 

It made me think of “Tam O Shanter,” 
Yawning grave yards belched their bones* 
“Ceptin” those that turned to stones, 
Coffins/rose from out the ground, 

To the clitter clatter sound, 

Death robes^floated in the air, 

With relics from the golden stair, 

Coffins stood upon the end, 

Skeletons looked out and grinned ; 

Reader, shrink from such a feature. 

If you are a scary creature, 

For it certainly is awful, 

And I’m sure it’s hardly lawful, 

To thus sing of such a sight, 

Yet I can but think it right, 

For some poor ungodly sinner, 

May expect to be the winner, 

Like Clodtelter,f who will try, 

To pass contemporaries by, 

And lie’ll give his talent scope, 

When he’s not an earthly hope; 

But as I have been inspired, 

It is your time to be lyred, 

By the harp with golden strings, 

Cherubs touch with magic wings; 

I’m aware that some may prank me, 

But I trust, that more will thank me, 

For all this advice I’ve given, 


*1 am indeed anxious that my readers shall understand this. I believe in 
close descriptions of such scenes. It was a scary sight indeed, just imag¬ 
ine, what bravery it took to stand and behold such a scene—I done so — 
Ego! 

fdods! what a name to rhyme on, ’Tis hard to tell which would bring 
more credit his verse or name. 



20 


That has just come fresh from heaven; 
I don’t believe in rapping spirit, 

If I’d hear one I would fear it. 

If I’d see one I would doubt it, 

It I’d feel one I would rout it. 

All things favorable before us 
We will now begin the chorus. 

’Roared the River clashed the bones,* 
Came the drowning, gurgling tones, 
Clenching hands and bowing neat, 
Tiptoe sliottische thou art sweet, 

Shake the hands and place the feet, 
Graceful on this silvery sheet; 
Promenade and circle round, 

Go till Gabriel’s trumpet sound. 
Dance on tiptoe, thou art grand, 

As you shake each bony hand, 

Irish jig -and rigadoon, 

Time to ? each imperial tune, 

’Round they go in dizzy maze, 
Twinkling feet so gently plays, 

To Bolero reel or waltz, 

Till alas! each fairy halts. 

Then a calm spread o’er the River, 

All except a little quiver, 

When a bony cherub rose, 

From its long and sweet repose. 

All eye sockets could but blurr, 

At the author of B— H,— 

When he ’rose for his reward. 
Soldier, Scholar, Novelist, Bard. 
All the judges in a row, 

Tried more honors to bestow, 


♦This was one of the most graceful dances it was mj good lor bad] for- 
tune to see. The “crack” of each hone was as clear as the ring of fresh 
coined silver. 










Coffins rose from out the ground 
To the clitter clatter sound, 
Deatli robes floated in the air 
With relies from the golden stair 
Coffins stood upon the end, 
Skeletons looked out and giiu’d. 




















































21 


As they knew not where to place him, 

Lest their judgment might disgrace him, 

Some one said by Victor Hugo, 

Others argued not to do so, 

But beside his favorite Irving, 

Was the place of his deserving. 

Then they placed him on Pegassus * 

With command to sweep Parnassus, 

Of all Crawfordsville small folk, 

That on earth could only croak, 

Such as Thompson, Mayfield, Krout, 

Leaving little “Cloddy” out.f 
From the worthy of the fold, 

By himself, so chill and cold. 

The General’s reception was a grand affair, for he had 
no more than dismounted, when thousands of cherubs 
appropriately equipped came in cavalcades superb, in un¬ 
broken lines of splendor, distinguished by those in¬ 
signia of the Great General’s favor, holding in each 
hand a mace of gold, and striving to attract the atten¬ 
tion of the distinguished comer. Around the curve 
wheels a golden chariot drawn by snow white palfreys 
embroidered in beautiful gold trappings. The chariot 
was as famous as it was beautiful, for it had drawn up 
this gorgeous mountain the immortelles from the earl y 
existence of the world, and in it were seated, Hugo, 
Scott, and Irving. When he entered this rare chariot, 
they advanced and placed about him, an endless 
wreath of evergreens, beaded with rare diamonds, as a 
welcome, and emblematic of his eternal fame. On, on. 
they go up the steep mountain, till they pass the her- 


*“Little Cloddy” Ha! Ha!! Ha!!! 
f Excuse me my Dear Cousins. 



22 


mit home of Maurice, who comes out to greet his old 
comrade and contemporary, but ere he had approached 
two paces toward him, the gulf of oblivion draws in, 
and swallows him up, and alas! and alas! poor Maurice 
is no more, and so passeth Mary Hannah Krout, and 
the world is the same as if they had never lived in it 
Pity, Thompson, Krout and Mayfield, for all their 
efforts were fruitless, and Clodlelter, the most pitiful as¬ 
pect of the fold, only arrives at the mere of the moun¬ 
tain to have fingers pointed at him, when he slinks back 
to his natural place of abode content to go down with 
the plebian of the world, and thus we learn that in the 
final ending of all things, only one from Crawfordsville 
is to eternally represent her, and that is the author of 
B.—H.—which is as eternal as the spirit that wrote it. 







23 


EPITAPH. 


Gaze on this spot of sorrow, gaze again 
Behold the sleeping dust that still remain 
The spoils of time, and plant the steeping tear,. 
Above the mortal relique lying here. 

They done ttieir best, ‘twas all we could expect, 
They sought what nature never did direct, 

And courted all the muses for the strain, 

They longed to sing, but always sung in vain, 
They were so much like Pope (except in name,) 
‘They gasped for numbers, but no numbers came; 
They were the friends of vain ambition—still 
And poured forth strains obedient to their will;— 
Tho’ like the pond that sleeps low in the vale, 
Unmoved except by some mere passing gale, 

It soon grows slimy and returns to,vapor, 

Like thoughts they left upon much wasted paper; 
This dust is theirs, think kindly as you pass, 

For it must rest an unlorgotten mass;— 

But yet we’ll harp their praises as they rest’ 
What more could we expect—they done their best. 






































































































































































































































